


Lights

by tanyart



Category: Temeraire - Novik
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:16:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tharkay worries, and wonders if it is worth it all. - (Set during Victory of Eagles.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights

If Laurence had been withdrawn since the start of the campaign, he was completely sealed off now, only responding with calm indifference at their inquiries, and seeing to his duties with no more enthusiasm than resentment. At the campfire, he offered no conversation besides the war, and even then, only of supplies and flight plans. It was harrowing to see Granby quietly struggle with being cut off so suddenly, perhaps thinking that his capture by the French had put weight behind Laurence’s flat stare and mechanical manner.

This, Tharkay thought, was because Granby had not known about Woovley, and Laurence would not speak of it, not to anyone, not even Temeraire. Tharkay had seen the dragon throw anxious glances in Laurence’s direction and, more than once, tried to engage Laurence, only to be brushed off and reassured that, despite his faded look, he was _fine_. Fine, being that he was breathing, eating, and carrying on, but everyone else could see that it was scarcely the same as living.

He knew, it was some kind of self-inflicted punishment, but Tharkay could not see if Laurence was deliberately pushing people like Granby away, or that he simply no longer cared. More than anything, Tharkay feared it was the latter.

So, while the Laurence they had known slowly grew fainter and fainter, Tharkay went to Granby, finding the man in his tent, cleaning old blood from his sword. When Granby looked up, he smiled, but there was a dim look in his blue eyes and the effect was ruined.

“We move again tomorrow,” he said, so very curt like Laurence that Tharkay did not say anything for a moment, and Granby continued, carelessly scraping his sword back into its scabbard; it would only be dirty again before the day was out, “Will you be staying?”

“I cannot,” Tharkay replied. He had only come to deliver missives and return back to patrolling once Laurence was done with the correspondence. “I leave again in an hour, after Gherni has eaten.”

Granby’s shoulders lowered, fractionally, before he nodded. When he stood, Tharkay noticed they way he glittered, the jewels on his coat catching light and playing bright colors of the dirt floor, but while Iskierka had Granby decked in the finest of clothes, his hair was still disheveled, more so from the recent battles than the normal wind-swept look, with parts of it matted down with blood and dirt, and his gait was weary as he idly paced back and forth.

“You do not look well,” Tharkay said, quietly, and he meant more than just the state of Granby’s appearance. If he had stepped closer, bent his head to meet Granby’s lips with his own, there would have been the bitter taste of alcohol between them.

“_Laurence_ does not look well. You’ve seen him,” Granby returned, sharply, then shook his head, realizing that he had no right to use him as an excuse. With a small sigh, he added, “But you do not look so well, also, and I suppose I can say the same for all of England, really.”

“True enough, though I do not care so much for England,” Tharkay said, steadily, watching Granby pause in mid-step. “And although Laurence seems determined to dig his own grave, I would not enjoy seeing you dig yours as well.”

“And yet you stay,” Granby chuckled, almost fondly, “Rest assured, I have no time to be digging graves, though we are giving reason for other men to need them.”

Tharkay would have smiled wryly, but Granby had been reaching for the decanter while he spoke. Instead, Tharkay took the bottle from Granby, holding his arm back with a firm grip.

“I cannot help Laurence now, but I am worried enough without you downing spirits after every battle,” he snapped, causing Granby to stiffen, “If you do not—if you too lose yourself, I wouldn’t know—“ Here, he stopped, unable to put into words his own selfishness and incompetence, his frustrations, and the maddening and shameful desire to just _leave_, as he had always done before. He had thought of how easy it would be, to cut all ties from England once again, and found that he only had two.

And that he was teetering on the edge, just as Granby was. Tharkay abruptly stepped away, face growing hot with mortification.

“I’m sorry,” Granby eventually said, breaking the silence that had drawn out. He had turned pale and bright-eyed, and Tharkay morbidly thought it an improvement.

“I should be leaving.”

Tharkay backed out of the tent, leaving Granby to stare blankly at the bottle of spirits that he had somehow dropped on the colorful, light-speckled floor.


End file.
